Clone

by M A Gelsey

Javi gave a curt nod, not trusting himself to speak. What is she doing? As if in answer, she grasped his hand and gave it a little squeeze. His fingers curled around hers involuntarily. He couldn’t meet her eyes, instead staring at their interlocked fingers. The temperature in the kitchen had been ratcheted up by thirty degrees or more. Javi chanced a glance at her and saw that she too was staring at their hands. She looked up then and met his eyes for the briefest of seconds, before she leaned over and softly brushed his lips with hers. At first he was too stunned to react, but when she broke the kiss and pulled back he leaned towards her without meaning to, stopping once his mind caught up to his body.

  Heart thudding in his chest, Javi stared at her lips as they curved into a small smile. Every cell in his body was screaming for him to act on his desire, but before he could work up the courage, Bryony burst into the room giggling, followed by another girl who looked a lot like her except a few years younger.

  Imogen snatched her hand away from the table as her daughters bounced over carrying a large and messy collage between them that they’d made with colored paper.

  “Look Mommy, look!” squealed the smaller of the two girls.

  “It’s beautiful, Poppy,” Imogen said. There was a faint blush on her cheeks and Javi felt a strange surge of pride at having been the one to put it there.

  “I helped!” exclaimed Bryony indignantly.

  “Of course you did, sweetie,” Imogen said with a smile.

  “Your face is all red,” Bryony informed Javi, and he reflexively looked down at the floor in an attempt to hide it.

  “Bryony, it’s not polite to say that to someone,” Imogen chided gently.

  “But it is,” Bryony insisted.

  “Yeah,” Poppy chimed in.

  “Hush,” Imogen said. “Why don’t you girls go ahead and make another collage so we can hang one in each of your rooms? That way Mommy can have some time to talk to Javier.”

  “That’s boring,” Poppy said, yawning theatrically.

  “Poppy,” Imogen said in a warning voice.

  “Boring, boring, BORING!” Poppy shouted gleefully, jumping up and down before swatting at her sister and screaming, “You’re it!” then running off with Bryony in hot pursuit. Javi heard the sound of a screen door opening as Poppy and Bryony took their tag game out to the backyard.

  “That should keep them occupied for a little while at least,” Imogen said with a mischievous look in her eye. “Come with me.” She grabbed Javi’s hand and jerked him to his feet, leading him out of the kitchen and down a long hallway into the master bedroom on the opposite side of the house. Javi didn’t have time to react to his shock before Imogen reached behind him to push the door shut and click the lock into place.

  Javi barely had a chance to register her nearness — her soft breasts brushed against his chest and her face was only inches from his — or the fact that he was standing in the bedroom she shared with her husband, before she pressed her lips to his again and wrapped her arms around his neck. He returned the kiss with a desperate fervor he didn’t realize he had, and snaked his arms around her waist to pull her closer. There was no space between them now — Javi couldn’t wrap his head around what was happening and didn’t care to try.

  Imogen broke the kiss and leaned back to say, “We don’t have long.” She pulled off her clothes deftly and Javi stood there gaping at her naked breasts, swaying this way and that with every motion. She chuckled at his dumbfounded look and yanked his shirt off over his head before grabbing his hands and placing them on her. He ran his thumbs over her nipples, his mind strangely blank and calm, even as his boner painfully throbbed against his jeans. Imogen unbuttoned and unzipped his pants and yanked them down along with his boxers. She took him in one hand and squeezed his ass with the other, leading him to the bed without waiting for him to step out of his pants or take off his shoes. When his knees hit the edge of the bed she pushed him onto his back, crawled on top of him, and kissed him before unceremoniously guiding him inside her.

  His body was on fire, a thrumming vibration of ecstasy as she rode him and it was only a few of seconds before he exploded inside her with a groan.

  “Shh!” Imogen whispered, playfully putting a hand over his mouth and laughing musically. “The girls will hear.” She leaned over and kissed him, their tongues intertwining before she moved down to nibble his ear and kiss his neck. He ran his hands over her back, her breasts, her ass, her legs. After a little while he felt himself stiffen again — when Imogen felt him poking her inner thigh, she looked down and grinned.

  “So soon,” she murmured. She guided him inside her once more, and this time he flipped them over so he was on top. She raked her fingernails over his back, not quite breaking the skin, and with her instruction he found a rhythm. The second time lasted longer, and just before he came she gasped and he felt her contract around him over and over and over again. When he finished he collapsed on top of her, sweating and panting.

  Just before he rolled off her, Imogen whispered into his ear, “God I’ve missed you, Javier.”

  29: BOB

  The air was colder than it should’ve been for April. Bob zipped up his leather jacket as he stepped out of the car and made his way briskly up the front walk. Everything from the neat brick building to the sprawling, well-maintained garden that took up much of the ground between the street and the front entrance was a testament to the generosity of Damon Aldous Harlow III. No one could claim that the clones at this shelter weren’t well cared-for.

  Bob shivered as the wind whipped through his short black hair and made its way under his collar. Truth be told Bob hated this part, but he was nothing if not dutiful. He had never been one to shrink from an unsavory task.

  The front door opened almost immediately when Bob rang the bell, as though the smiling attendant who answered it had been waiting for him. Bob stepped across the threshold into the familiar hallway that led off towards classrooms on the ground floor and dormitories upstairs. As with the exterior, the building was plain but well-maintained.

  “I’ll be right back, Mr. Smith,” said the middle-aged woman who had let him in.

  “Please Angelica, call me Bob.”

  Angelica giggled, then retreated down the hallway. He thought she was swaying her hips more than usual for his benefit.

  A few moments later, Angelica returned, leading a small girl by the hand. The girl was probably five years old with blonde hair and clouded, unseeing eyes. Bob’s brow furrowed. No one had told him the girl was blind. He supposed the buyer must have requested her especially . . . but no, it wouldn’t do to go down that road.

  “Dolores, this is Mr. Smith. Remember how we talked about you going on a trip?” The false enthusiasm in Angelica’s voice was painful. It was all Bob could do not to wince.

  The girl turned her sightless eyes vaguely in his direction. “Are you going to take me to my new family?” she asked him.

  Bob coughed. “Yes. We’ll need to fly on an airplane to get there. Have you ever been on an airplane before?”

  “No,” she said quietly. Bob could tell she was afraid but was trying to appear brave. He knelt down in front of her.

  “It’ll be an adventure,” he told her. “You’ll see.”

  She gave him the tiniest of smiles.

  “I’ve got her luggage here,” Angelica prattled, wheeling a small suitcase over to him. “It’s got her white cane, although she’s still learning to use it. You’ll need to hold her hand to keep her from bumping into things or getting lost.”

  “No problem,” Bob said. He stood up, and Angelica passed Dolores’ hand to him. “Is this okay?” he asked her.

  Dolores squeezed his hand tighter and nodded.

  “Bye-bye, Dolores!” Angelica chirped.

  “Bye, Angelica,” the girl replied with a sniffle.

  “Ready to go?” Bob asked her. They needed to hurry up if they wanted to make their flight to Rome.

  “Yes,” Dolores said solemnly.

&
nbsp; Bob took the suitcase in his free hand and wheeled it out, careful to walk slowly enough that Dolores could keep up. When they reached the car, he opened the door and helped her into the back seat.

  “Newark Airport,” he told the computer.

  “Destination: Newark International Airport,” replied a cool, robotic voice as the car pulled away from the curb. “Estimated arrival time: 5:27pm.”

  “Who’s that?” Dolores asked.

  “It’s the car,” Bob explained. “I tell it where we want to go, then it drives us there.”

  “How does it know where to drive?” Dolores asked.

  “It’s got a computer that follows a map.”

  Dolores seemed to mull that over. “Oh,” was all she had to say in response.

  Bob settled back against the seat, expecting Dolores to remain silent. She barely lasted two minutes.

  “How far away is Newark Airport?” she asked.

  “Not too far,” Bob said. His head had started throbbing, just behind the eyes. “A couple of hours.”

  “What’s it like to ride on an airplane?”

  “You’ll find out soon. Let’s play the quiet game. You can look out the window or something.” The instant the words were out of his mouth, Bob realized his mistake. Confusion then sadness flitted across Dolores’s face. The throbbing in Bob’s head increased in tempo.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just meant —”

  “It’s okay,” Dolores said. “Angelica always says I talk too much.”

  “No, it’s not you,” Bob lied. “I had a fight with my sister earlier and it made me cranky.” Why did I tell her that? Bob wondered. It was the truth. They’d argued (again) about Harlow. Just thinking about it caused Bob to clench his teeth. It wasn’t the first time he resented Rebecca — Jane now, he mentally corrected — for getting him involved in this mess, but whenever he brought it up, she always managed to Jedi Mind Trick him into agreeing that it was really the best thing.

  “I understand,” Dolores said solemnly, although of course Bob knew she couldn’t possibly. He felt absurdly grateful for her attempt at empathy, however.

  She didn’t talk much for the rest of the ride, and he was grateful for that too. Once they arrived, they approached the check in counter where Bob produced two forged passports (today they were Peter and Eloise Hayes) and a notarized letter from Dolores’s “mother”, giving him, her “father” permission to bring Dolores out of the country, ostensibly to visit her godparents in Rome. The airline attendant looked over all their documents carefully, but she was all smiles as Bob chatted amiably with her, and they were sent on to security without any trouble.

  After they finished checking in, Bob had one of the female attendants take Dolores to the bathroom. They went to the gate together afterwards, and he guided her into a leather chair in the first class lounge. Her legs were too short to reach the floor, and she swung them back and forth.

  “Are we on the airplane yet?” she asked him.

  “No. We’re waiting to board. It won’t be long now, maybe fifteen minutes.”

  “Can you tell me about where we’re going?”

  “We’re going to Rome. It’s . . . a very beautiful city. The food is better than anything you’ve ever tasted before. Have you ever had ice cream? They have something like it there, but better. It’s called gelato.”

  “I like ice cream,” Dolores said. “Especially chocolate.”

  “The chocolate gelato you’ll have in Rome is the best in the world,” he told her. It’s not a lie, he told himself. It might not be a lie. You don’t know what he’s planning.

  The time came for them to board. They settled into the first row, with Dolores on the window seat. When the captain announced that they were taking off, she grabbed for his hand, groping frantically over the arm rest. Bemused, he reached over to her, and felt her tiny fingers grip his.

  “I’m scared,” she whispered.

  A punch to the gut would’ve hurt less. “It’s okay,” he lied. “It’ll all be okay.”

  She continued to squeeze his hand for duration of the takeoff. Once the plane leveled off, she loosened her grip but did not let go.

  “Are we flying?” she asked him.

  “We are,” he replied. “Not so bad, is it?”

  “Not so bad,” she agreed.

  It wasn’t too long before she drifted off to sleep. Bob tried to sleep as well, but instead found himself watching her. He told himself it was a stomachache that kept him from sleeping, but he knew the lie was hollow. She wasn’t the first clone he’d escorted to an overseas buyer, but this one felt different, somehow. Perhaps it was the buyer himself. There was something about that man’s eyes that made Bob’s skin crawl. He thought about his parents then, and how his mother would slap him and tell him to toughen up if she were around to hear his thoughts. Hesitation was a weakness, and weakness had no place in their world.

  When the plane landed in Rome, Bob took Dolores’s hand and led her through the airport, outside to their waiting car.

  “Your hand is sweaty,” she informed him.

  “Sorry.” Bob’s stomachache had gotten worse, and the dull throbbing behind his eyes had started again. It’s because I didn’t sleep. Not anything else.

  Bob told the car their address and it pulled away from the curb. Dolores hummed to herself excitedly. The ride seemed to take no time at all. As Bob helped Dolores out of the car, he thought, this is your last chance to change your mind. He ignored that, and walked towards the building entrance. It was like moving through molasses, through quicksand. Each step required an extraordinary effort.

  When they reached the penthouse, Bob fumbled in his pocket for the key. He slid it into the lock and turned. The door swung open to reveal the buyer, seated on the couch where he could watch them enter. The look on his face was predatory, and there was greed in his cold eyes. He’s not even trying to hide it. She can’t see him so . . .

  “Hello, Dolores,” said the man. “I’m your new Daddy.”

  “Hello,” Dolores said shyly. She still clung to Bob’s hand.

  The man stood up and approached them. Dolores took an involuntary half-step behind Bob. The man’s eyes flicked over her, not failing to notice. Far from being put-off, her fear seemed to excite him further. He reached out and snatched her hand from Bob. She let out a little yelp in surprise, and turned her head from side-to-side, as if trying in vain to see what was going on. The look on her face shattered Bob’s heart in a million pieces.

  “That’ll be all,” the man told him. “We’re fine here.”

  Bob stood where he was, staring dumbly. A hand found its way onto his shoulder and another gripped the crook of his elbow. He turned to see an armed security guard, and when the hands tugged him towards the exit, none too gently, he didn’t resist. As the door was slammed behind him, he heard Dolores whimper.

  He didn’t have a very clear memory of making his way outside. The next thing Bob knew, he was vomiting in an alleyway as disgusted tourists gave him a wide berth and a few locals screamed insults at him from their balconies. No doubt they thought he was just another drunk American, sloppy and pathetic. With each retch, Bob heard that whimper repeated in his head over and over and over again. He wanted nothing more than to lie down on the ground, curl up in a ball and sleep, never to wake again. Weak, a voice in his head whispered. It sounded uncannily like his father. You’ve always been weak. Bob knew it was the truth.

  30: EDGAR PRIME

  “Dr. Edgar Midas is a genius,” Harlow said to a small knot of reporters gathered on the steps outside the conference center. “A visionary. But some credit must go to the lawmakers — legalizing human cloning was the best thing our congress has done in years. The people spoke, and for once congress listened.” Harlow gave a guffaw at that, and the journalists holding the microphones tittered.

  Harlow continued, “It has allowed the United States to once again lead the world in science and technology. Dr. Edgar Midas has done more tha
n advance the field of genetics — in creating the cloning industry he has solved the problem of grief. In doing so, he has joined the great pantheon of those who have irrevocably changed our world, whose contributions will continue to echo for generations, for centuries. I am honored to have been able to facilitate his work in my own small way. After all, even the greatest researcher needs funding, doesn’t he!” The press around Harlow smiled indulgently, but Edgar Prime shook his head in disgust and walked off before Harlow could continue — he had heard more than enough of Harlow’s pontificating for one day.

  He made it to the building entrance before he stopped. His arms and legs had turned to lead, they weighed him down and each step was more difficult than the last. Even after all these years, the feeling of being a lab rat had never abated — he knew they were always studying him, observing the subject of a grand and ongoing experiment.

  Edgar Prime stood outside the door for another minute while other I.C.G. attendees cast curious glances in his direction as they passed. Fuck it, he thought savagely and he turned away from the conference center without a backwards glance. Harlow had decided it for him — he’d already OD’d on self-congratulatory pomp for the day. Edgar Prime crossed the street and headed through the square opposite with a heady rush of euphoria at playing hooky from the conference. He grinned, forcibly suppressing the desire to laugh aloud for fear of scaring a large group of Japanese tourists strolling past.

  A female voice with an American accent drifted over the square, and Edgar Prime saw a couple hundred people clustered together on the far side. The first words that Edgar Prime could make out were,“And what kinds of rights do these clones even have?” The grin faded from his face and he slowed, hesitating. Without consciously deciding to do so, Edgar Prime turned and began to walk towards the protestors. He could see the woman speaking better as he approached — she was so short that she was barely visible over the heads of the crowd despite standing on a park bench. She looked to be in her mid-twenties and had olive skin, freckles, clear blue eyes and dark reddish brown hair.